Richard's heart thrummed against his ribs as he desperately tried to stem the flow of blood from his partner's wound. His usually steady touch felt clumsy and ineffectual, his fingers pressing too hard, too desperate against the torn flesh.

"I'm so, so, so sorry," his apologies spilled out like a mantra, and his voice is choked with guilt. "D*mnit, I'm so sorry."

Every fiber of his being screamed with regret. He should have been more aware, more in control. His souped-up senses should've alerted him to his significant other's presence in the apartment, but they had caught him off guard. In his feral haze, he had bitten them.

As he glances down at his partner's arm, the reality of what he'd done sinks in. The bite looks gnarly and jagged, and he's certain it'll leave a scar. As if his guilt wasn't eating him up enough, the thought of a permanent reminder of his f*ck-up being etched onto his partner was excruciating.

"I'll fix this," he promises, his voice barely above a whisper.

His appearance must be unhinged, a distorted amalgamation of man and beast, still gripped by the primal rush of adrenaline. He could see the fear and pain in their eyes, mirroring the turmoil swirling within him. He felt like a monster. His partner's tears were like acid to his heart.

"Please talk to me. I need to hear you," he says, reaching out a hand to thumb away their tears. He hates the silence on their part, safe for their sniffles and strangled grunts of pain. The silence is like a knife twisting in his gut. He's so afraid they might hate him.